CHAPTER FIVE

The uber winds through streets I’ve never dared to explore before. My fingers drum nervously on my knees, and Rosa is practically buzzing beside me, pressing her face to the glass as though she’s afraid to miss a single view.

“This place,” she whispers as we approach tall iron gates. “Leina, this isn’t just money. This is old money. Untouchable money.”

The gates open after a brief call on the intercom, and we’re ushered into a neighborhood that looks like it belongs in another world.

Lush gardens, marble fountains, manicured driveways, it all feels suffocatingly perfect.

By the time we pull up to the sprawling white estate Isabella calls home, my stomach has tied itself into knots.

The uber drops us by the gates and we step in.

A servant greets us, bowing her head politely. “Señorita Isabella. You've been gone for so long. You're father is so worried.”

“Where is Papa,” Isabella asks, clutching her bag tighter.

“He went out. I'll inform him of your return.”

I should probably leave.

A month ago,I would have felt like I belonged here. Strange how I grew up in riches, but standing in the luxury mansion makes me feel so out of place. The past weeks in Mexico are enough to make me forget what wealth feels like.

Everything feels strange. The air feels heavy, almost suffocating. The diamond chandeliers sparkle like blinding lights. Too bright.

I turn to her level and crouch before Isabella. “I will take my leave now princessa. Don't wander off next time, the streets are not safe.”

“Stay, please,” she holds my hand, eyes pleading. “I know papa would love to thank you. Please.”

There's something in her voice and the way she looks at me that I just can't seem to say no.

“Okay then. We'll wait for Papa to come home,” I tell her and she lights up instantly.

“I would really love to meet this Damien Moretti, but I'm working tonight. See you later girl,” Rosa tells me.

After a quick hug, she turns around and walks out the door.

“Come on!” Isabella says, taking a hold of my hand. “Let me show you my room.”

I let her pull me along, up a flight of stairs, then down a quiet corridor, expecting her room to burst with color and toys the way children’s rooms usually do.

But when she pushes the door open, I freeze.

It’s… sterile.

The bed is neatly made, every fold sharp and exact, like no child has ever jumped on it. The walls are plain cream, unmarked, undecorated, bare of posters or drawings. A single shelf stands in the corner, stacked with books that look far too heavy for a six-year-old to enjoy. No bright covers, no fairy tales, just thick spines with serious titles.

It doesn’t feel like a child’s room at all. It feels like a guest space.

“Is this really your room?” I ask softly, stepping inside.

Isabella nods, already moving toward the small desk in the corner. “Irina says my room should be for resting and studying. Distractions make the mind weak.”

Her voice is steady, repeating words she’s clearly been told often.

“Is she your nanny?” I ask

“No. Papa's assistant. My nanny got fired because she tried taking me out to the park one afternoon,” she explains, something akin to nostalgia in her voice.

My eyes drift up to the wall above the desk, and that’s when I see it.

A fucking schedule.

I move closer, my chest tightening as I read. Mathematics. Piano. Reading. Etiquette. Language drills. More piano. Every single hour, filled. I scan it twice, desperately hoping I missed something. But no.

There isn’t a single block marked for play. Not even one.

My stomach twists. She’s only six.

“Do you ever… play?” I ask carefully, crouching so I’m eye level with her.

She tilts her head, frowning like she doesn’t understand the question. “Sometimes I play piano,” she offers, her voice small. “And my tutor says I read better than most children my age.”

Her little smile looks so practiced, so desperate for approval, it hurts to look at.

I glance back at the barren walls, at the precision of the room, at the schedule that feels more like a prison sentence than guidance. My chest aches for her. No toys. No laughter. No chaos. Just rules.

Leaning closer, I whisper, “How about tonight, we do something different? Just you and me. I’ll teach you a game my mamá taught me when I was little.”

Her eyes widen, uncertain but curious. “A game?”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Yes. No piano, no books. Just fun.”

For the first time since I met her, something sparks in her eyes, something fragile and bright.

I drag out a chair closer to her desk and tap the empty surface. “Come, sit. I’ll show you something.”

Isabella hesitates, glancing at her schedule like she’s afraid it might scold her. But when I pat the chair again, she hurries over, curiosity winning out.

I place both my hands on the desk. “It’s simple. Just follow my rhythm.” I clap once, then twice, then slap the desk with my palms. “Your turn.”

She giggles, an actual giggle, and mirrors me. The first time, she misses the second clap, but she tries again, determined. Soon we’re trading claps and desk slaps, the rhythm quickening, filling the bland room with the sound of something it’s been starving for: play.

Her laughter is soft at first, as if she’s afraid to let it out, but it grows, bubbling up until she can’t contain it. She messes up the rhythm and collapses into a fit of giggles, covering her face with her little hands.

“There it is,” I murmur, my chest aching in the best and worst way. “That’s what childhood should sound like.”

We’re still laughing when the sound of footsteps echoes down the hall. Heavy, deliberate. Isabella straightens immediately, her little shoulders tense.

The door opens, and two figures step in.

Damien.

And a woman trailing just behind him, tall, sharp features, eyes like steel. She’s dressed in black, not a hair out of place.

Her gaze sweeps over the room, lands on Isabella, then on me. Disapproval sharpens every line of her face.

“What is going on here?” she snaps, her accent crisp, voice slicing through the warmth we had built. She strides forward, her heels clicking against the polished floor. “Isabella, you know the rules. This is not how you spend your time.”

Isabella shrinks back into her chair, her laughter dying as quickly as it had bloomed.

“And you,” the woman turns to me, her eyes narrowing, “I am guessing you are the one who brought her home. You might have saved her but you don't belong here. Do not interfere with her routine again.”

I rise slowly, forcing my chin high even though my stomach knots. “I wasn’t interfering. I was keeping her company while she waited.”

“That is not your place,” the woman snaps, stepping closer. “You are a stranger. And Isabella doesn’t need strangers teaching her bad habits.”

My mouth opens to argue, but I feel Damien’s presence shift. He’s been silent, standing just inside the doorway, his dark eyes unreadable as they flick between Isabella, the woman, and me.

I wait for him to say something, for him to defend his daughter, or at least acknowledge her. But he doesn’t. He just watches, silent as stone, his expression impossible to read.

Isabella looks at him, her big eyes pleading, but he gives no reaction. No comfort. No word.

The woman, Irina, I catch from the way Isabella stiffens at her presence, places a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Come. You’ve wasted enough time. Homework awaits.”

Something inside me burns. Homework. She’s six.

I want to speak again, to tell her what I saw on that schedule, to tell Damien what his daughter truly needs, but the weight of his gaze silences me. He is a man who radiates authority without a word, and I know one wrong move could close this door forever.

So I swallow my anger, but I don’t lower my eyes. Not to Irina. Not to him.

For a moment, Damien’s gaze lingers on me, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, then he turns away, dismissing me without a word.

The warmth of Isabella’s laughter feels like it never happened.

I gather my bag, preparing to leave.

“Will you come by tomorrow? Please?” Isabella is speaking to me, but her eyes are on her father's. Pleading.

“She doesn't have to come here Isabella. You have work to do tomorrow.”

I stare at Irina like she's lost her mind. Tomorrow is Saturday for Christ's sake. What work could she possibly have?

“Please, Papa.” Tears fill the brim of her big brown eyes. “You and Irina will leave for work tomorrow, Juana leaves to visit her family on weekends. Irina sent my nanny away. I don't want to be alone, Papa.”

Damien's face softens as he picks her up in his arms, wiping her tears. “She can come tomorrow and keep you company.” He gives her a kiss on her forehead and she buries her head in the crook of his neck.

“Thank you for bringing her home,” he tells me. “She'll be expecting you tomorrow. Don't fail her.”

I nod before walking out of the room, and out of the estate.